SIXTEEN  DEAD  MEN 

AND  OTHER  POEMS  OF 
EASTER  WEEK 


BY 

DORA  SIGERSON  SHORTER 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXIX 


PRINTED  IN  AMERICA 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

This  book  is  a  sacred  obligation  to  one  who 
broke  her  heart  over  Ireland.  Dora  Sigerson  in 
her  last  few  weeks  of  life,  knowing  full  well  that 
she  was  dying,  designed  every  detail  of  this  little 
volume  —  the  dedication  to  the  tricolour,  intro- 
duction, and  the  order  in  which  the  poems  are 
printed.  Any  profit  that  may  arise  from  the  sale 
of  the  book  will  be  devoted,  as  are  all  the  copy- 
rights of  the  author,  to  a  monument  which  she 
herself  sculptured  with  a  view  to  its  erection 
over  the  graves  of  the  "  Sixteen  Dead  Men " 
when  circumstances  place  their  ashes  in  Glans- 
nevin.  The  editor  is  indebted  to  the  courtesy 
of  the  George  H.  Doran  Company,  New  York, 
for  permission  to  reprint  eight  poems  from  "  The 
Sad  Years,"  by  Dora  Sigerson. 

5 


2061322 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEDICATION      THE   TRICOLOR  g 

INTRODUCTION      THE   LION  II 

SIXTEEN   DEAD   MEN  15 

THE   SACRED   FIRE  If 

CONSCRIPTION  1 8 

SICK  I   AM    AND   SORROWFUL  IQ 

IN   THE   YEARS   OF   SARSFIELD  22 

A   CATHOLIC   TO    HIS    ULSTER    BROTHER  25 

THEY  DID   NOT   SEE   THY   FACE  29 

THE   WILD    BEAST  31 

THE   WILD   GEESE  34 

THE   QUEEN  36 

THE   CHOICE  39 

THE   OLD   SONG  42 

THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER  47 

THE   TREE    UPROOTED  52 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WREATH:    EASTER,  1917  54 

THE  PRISONER  55 

OURSELVES  ALONE  57 

KATHLEEN'S  LOVER  60 

THE    FOE  63 

EMPIRE    BUILDING  65 

LOUD   SHOUT  THE   FLAMING  TONGUES  OF  WAR  72 

THE    HILL-SIDE   MEN  75 

THE   STAR  77 

"  TELLING  THE    BEES  "  79 

THE   STORY   WITHOUT   END  8 1 

THE  DEAD   SOLDIER  84 


TO 
THE  TRICOLOUR 

ABOUT  this  time  there  was  let  loose  a  great  tumult  in  the 
city.  Fire  and  battle  held  Dublin  for  about  a  week,  and 
then  from  out  of  it  all,  above  the  crash  of  falling  houses 
and  the  roar  of  guns,  over  the  crackling  flames  rose  the  tricol- 
our, and  for  a  few  mad  days  it  shone  into  the  hearts  of  the 
people. 

And  then  a  wounded  prisoner  of  war,  by  the  name  of  James 
Connolly,  was  slain,  and  so  was  disbanded  the  wonderful  Citizen 
Army  which  had  arisen  from  the  awful  conditions  of  bad  hous- 
ing and  miserable  wages  so  prevalent  in  Ireland. 

So  Labour  was  shot  down  because  it  dared  to  be  discontented 
with  its  fortunes. 

At  the  same  time  Pearse,  the  idealist,  surrendered  to  superior 
forces  to  save  his  countrymen. 

And  Idealism  was  shot  down  because  it  dared  to  dream 
greater  dreams  than  were  allowed  to  small  nationalities. 

On  Easter  Monday  Sheehy-Skeffington,  the  pacifist,  was  mur- 
dered secretly  and  without  trial. 

Thus  Peace  was  shot  down  by  a  lunatic,  because  it  got  in  the 
way  of  militarism. 

So  the  bright  flag  fell  from  the  high  place  where  it  had  floated 
free.  Yet  what  a  tricolour  were  these  three  —  Labour,  Ideal- 
ism, and  Pacifism  —  how  proudly  it  flew,  so  distinct  in  its 
colours,  so  perfect  in  its  union,  preaching  its  lesson  for  Easter 
to  the  people !  At  Easter,  the  time  of  Resurrection,  not  of 
Death.  Yet  out  of  Death  comes  Resurrection.  Who  will  take 
it  upon  himself  to  crucify  Labour,  since  Christ  was  the  Son  of 
a  carpenter;  Idealism,  for  Christ  was  an  idealist;  Peace,  for 
did  not  Christ  our  Lord  say  "  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,  for 
they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God"? 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  LION 

IT  is  the  lion's  chief  distinction  to  be  called  the 
king  of  beasts.  I  do  not  like  the  lion. 

He  looks  magnificent  pacing  his  cage  at  the 
Zoo,  where  only  have  I  seen  him,  but  I  know  him 
for  a  flesh-eater,  his  absent  gaze  and  distraught 
air  do  not  denote  the  philosopher  or  the  thinker, 
his  mind  is  fixed  only  upon  the  hours  as  they  pass 
because  they  are  punctuated  by  blood  and  bones  at 
stated  intervals.  His  loud  voice  which  shakes  the 
walls  of  his  den  would  affright  me  more  did  it  not 
wake  humour  in  the  thought  "  of  all  beasts  but  one 
you  make  most  noise  for  your  size,  and  that  one 
is  your  little  sister  the  cat." 

The  lion  is  a  treacherous  beast,  you  cannot  trust 
ii 


INTRODUCTION 

him  to  play  fair,  that  is  why  we  carry  guns  when 
we  go  to  meet  the  lion.  Some  say  the  lion  can  be 
taught,  but  I  do  not  believe  it.  The  old  lion 
does  not  learn  with  years.  He  will  kill  men  in 
age  as  foolishly  as  he  did  when  young,  he  makes 
no  distinctions,  the  little  man  is  as  sweet  to  the 
lion  as  the  big  man,  indeed,  he  prefers  the  smaller 
victim,  he  will  take,  too,  a  child  or  a  woman  with- 
out remorse. 

Some  say  the  flesh  of  man  is  not  good  for  the 
lion,  that  it  causes  dangerous  internal  disorders. 
I  do  not  know. 

Some  say  the  lion  is  afraid  of  the  mouse,  per- 
haps it  is  because  the  courage  in  so  small  a  thing 
affrights  him,  if  so  tiny  a  beast  can  carry  it  before 
him  his  power  is  lessened,  and  courage  is  so  con- 
tagious. 

I  have  heard  tell  you  can  put  your  head  in  the 
lion's  mouth,  but  would  not  advocate  it  as  an 
amusement,  sometimes  the  jaws  close  and  the 

12 


INTRODUCTION 

head  is  gone,  though  after  all  people  will  say  you 
we.re  brave  and  the  world's  sympathies  will  not 
be  with  the  lion.  If  the  lion  is  the  king  of  beasts 
he  feeds  only  on  the  flesh  of  his  subjects,  if  he  is  in 
a  deceitful  mood,  which  is  usual  to  him,  he  plays 
with  them  in  the  manner  of  his  sister  the  cat,  they 
fancy  he  is  offering  them  freedom  when  his  mood 
is  fiercest. 

He  feeds  chiefly  upon  the  little  antelopes  and 
gentle  does  that  inhabit  foreign  lands.  He 
crushes  also  the  bones  of  men;  even  in  his  old  age 
he  does  not  realise  the  dreams,  the  nobility,  the 
idealism  which  he  gorges  himself  upon  as  he  laps 
the  blood  of  his  victim. 

Little  beasts  do  not  run  to  the  lion  asking  his 
protection;  standing  alone  in  his  khaki-coloured 
coat  upon  his  crag  he  roars  the  threatened  little 
ones  to  his  side  pretending  love  till  he  devours 
them. 

I  do  not  like  the  lion  —  he  is  the  king  of  beasts. 
13 


SIXTEEN  DEAD  MEN 

HARK!  in  the  still  night.     Who  goes  there? 
"  Fifteen  dead  men."     Why  do  they  wait? 
"  Hasten,  comrade,  death  is  so  fair." 

Now  comes  their  Captain  through  the  dim  gate. 

Sixteen  dead  men !     What  on  their  sword? 

"  A  nation' s  honour  proud  do  they  bear" 
What  on  their  bent  heads?     "  God's  holy  word; 

All  of  their  nation's  heart  blended  in  prayer." 

Sixteen  dead  men!     What  makes  their  shroud? 

"  All  of  their  nation's  love  wraps  them  around." 
Where  do  their  bodies  lie,  brave  and  so  proud? 

"  Under  the  gallows-tree  in  prison  ground." 

Sixteen  dead  men!     Where  do  they  go? 

"  To  join  their  regiment,  where  Sarsfield  leads; 
Wolfe  Tone  and  Emmet,  too,  well  do  they  know. 

There  shall  they  bivouac,  telling  great  deeds." 


SIXTEEN  DEAD  MEN 

Sixteen  dead  men!     Shall  they  return? 

"  Yea,   they  shall  come  again,   breath  of  our 

breath. 

They  on  our  nation's  hearth  made  old  fires  burn. 
Guard  her  unconquered  soul,  strong  in  their 
death." 


16 


THE  SACRED  FIRE 

THEY  lit  a  fire  within  their  land  that  long  was 
ashes  cold, 
With  splendid  dreams  they  made  it  glow,  threw  in 

their  hearts  of  gold. 
They  saw  thy  slowly  paling  cheek  and  knew  thy 

failing  breath, 
They  bade  thee  live  once  more,  Kathleen,  who 

wert  so  nigh  to  death. 
And  who  dare  quench  the  sacred  fire,  and  who 

dare  give  them  blame, 
Since  he  who  draws  too  near  the  glow  shall  break 

into  a  flame? 
They  lit  a  beacon  in  their  land,  built  of  the  souls 

of  men, 
To  make  thee  warm  once  more,  Kathleen,  to  bid 

thee  live  again. 


THERE  is  a  shadow  on  the  head  I  love, 
There  is  a  danger  lurks  thy  path  upon, 
It  murmurs  low  as  coos  the  mating  dove, 
It  calls  in  grey  and  gathered  clouds  above, 
For  thee,  for  thee,  Kathleen  ni-Houlihan. 

It  hides  in  seas  that  beat  about  thy  shores, 
The  wind  in  passing  whispers  and  is  gone, 
And  the  brown  leaf  no  summer  will  restore, 
Flutters  this  cry  on  Winter's  russet  floor, 
Danger  to  thee,  Kathleen  ni-Houlihan. 

God  of  the  seas  disperse  the  gathered  gloom, 
God  of  the  skies  smile  her  sweet  path  upon, 
God  of  the  earth  this  danger  swift  entomb, 
Slay  the  wild  beast  that  creeps  to  bring  her  doom. 
Save  her,  save  her,  Kathleen  ni-Houlihan! 


SICK  I  AM  AND  SORROWFUL 

SICK  I  am  and  sorrowful,  how  can  I  be  well 
again 
Here,  where  fog  and  darkness  is,  and  big  guns 

boom  all  day, 

Practising  for  evil  sport?     If  you  speak  humanity, 
Hatred  comes  into  each  face,  and  so  you  cease  to 
pray. 

How  I  dread  the  sound  of  guns,  hate  the  bark  of 
musketry, 

Since  the  friends  I  loved  are  dead,  all  stricken  by 
the  sword. 

Full  of  anger  is  my  heart,  full  of  rage  and  misery; 

How  can  I  grow  well  again,  or  be  my  peace  re- 
stored? 

If  I  were  in  Glenmalure,  or  in  Enniskerry  now, 
Hearing  of  the  coming  spring  in  the  pine-tree's 
song; 

19 


SICK  I  AM  AND  SORROWFUL 

If  I  woke  on  Arran  Strand,  dreamt  me  on  the 

cliffs  of  Moher, 
Could  I  not  grow  gay  again,  should  I  not  be 

strong? 

If  I  stood  with  eager  heart  on  the  heights  of 
Carrantuohill, 

Beaten  by  the  four  great  winds  into  hope  and  joy 
again, 

Far  above  the  cannons'  roar  or  the  scream  of 
musketry, 

If  I  heard  the  four  great  seas,  what  were  weari- 
ness or  pain? 

Were  I  in  a  little  town,  Ballybunnion,  Ballybrack, 
Laughing  with  the  children  there,  I  would  sing 
and  dance  once  more, 


20 


SICK  I  AM  AND  SORROWFUL 

Heard  again  the  storm  clouds  roll  hanging  over 

Lugnaquilla, 
Built  dream  castles  from  the  sands  of  Killiney's 

golden  shore. 

If  I  saw  the  wild  geese  fly  over  the  dark  lakes  of 

Kerry 
Or  could  hear  the  secret  winds,  I  could  kneel  and 

pray. 
But  'tis  sick  I  am  and  grieving,  how  can  I  be  well 

again 
Here,  where  fear  and  sorrow  are  —  my  heart  so 

far  away? 


21 


IN  THE  YEARS  OF  SARSFIELD 

I  WISH  I  were  over  the  Curlew  Mountains, 
Marching  to  Sligo  by  valley  and  fen; 
I  wish  I  were  back  in  the  years  of  Sarsfield, 
Tramping  the  rough  roads  with  him  and  his 
men. 

I  wish  that  I  stood  upon  Yellow  Island, 

Watching  the  camp  that  the  Williamites  made; 

I  wish  that  my  good  gun  was  pressed  to  my 

shoulder 
And  that  my  caubeen  held  the  white  cockade. 

I  wish  I  were  out  with  "  galloping  Hogan," 
Happy  a  guide  for  my  hero  to  be, 

Encamped  for  the  night  on  the  Keeper  Mountain, 
Ready  to  guard  with  the  brave  rapparee. 

I  wish  I  had  been  in  the  woods  of  Cullen 
In  the  dark  night  when  the  battle  began; 
22 


I  wish  I  had  heard  at  the  wan  moon's  rising 
"  Sarsfield  the  word,  and  Sarsfield  the  man." 

I  wish  I  were  young  at  the  siege  of  Limerick, 
Holding  the  breach  there  and  glad  in  the  fight; 

Ah,  could  I  but  see  him,  King  William  of  Orange, 
With  his  troops  defeated  ready  for  flight. 

Had  I  but  stood  on  the  bridge  of  Athlone,  there 
Flinging  the  plank  and  beam  into  the  wave, 

Keeping  the  broken  arch,  as  the  last  hero  stood 
Fighting  the  fight  of  death,  one  of  the  brave. 

I  wish  I  had  fought  in  the  flood  of  the  Shannon 
With  the  grim  Dutchmen,  to  conquer  or  drown, 

Left  without  shot  or  shell  by  the  false  Maxwell,1 
Into  the  deep  had  that  traitor  gone  down. 

1  One  Brigadier  Maxwell,  in  the  Campaign  of  1691. 
23 


IN  THE  YEAR  OF  SARSFIELD 

I  wish  I  had  fought  in  the  battle  of  Aughrim 
By  the  black  bog  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 

Seeing  there  Ginkel's  men  fall  to  disquietude, 
Failing  with  Sarsfield  meant  living  still. 


I  wish  I  had  flown  with  the  Wild  Geese  across  the 

sea, 

Knelt  on  red  Landen's  plain,  facing  the  foe; 
Holding  the  dear  head  of  Sarsfield  on  my  heart, 
Knowing  from  his  brave  blood  heroes  would 
grow. 

A h,  had  I  sailed  to  far  France  out  of  Galway, 
There  on  the  deck  the  spy  Maxwell  to  see, 

Bishop  or  Luttrell  never  had  stayed  me  from 
"  Tossing  the  Scotsman  right  into  the  sea."2 

*  Macaulay's  "  History  of  England,"  Ch.  XVII. 


IS  there  no  bond  of  blood  to  you,  my  brother? 
Who  have  called  her  ours,  the  ancient  Mother, 
And  here  we  hope  to  rest  from  Life's  temptation 
Building  of  souls  our  patriotic  Nation. 

Can  we  not  stand  amongst  the  purple  heather 
To  find  that  God  we  both  revere  together? 
Beneath  this  sky  can  come  no  bigot  preaching 
To  fling  our  lofty  dreams  to  lowly  teaching. 

William  or  James,  need  we  still  hate  each  other 
For  their  dead  sakes,  my  Irish-hearted  brother? 
Can  we  not  pray  without  fear  of  dissension 
"  God  save  our  land  "  with  but  the  same  inten- 
tion? 

If  we  from  Derry  walls  were  flung  defeated, 
And  you  from  Limerick  town  in  speed  retreated, 

25 


A  CATHOLIC  TO  HIS  ULSTER  BROTHER 

One  God  is  ours  no  matter  what  religion, 
One  land  we  love  and  shall  not  have  division. 

Shall  we  divide?     Ah,  better  take  the  token 
Of  Ireland's  luck  and  leave  the  shamrock  broken 
Of  one  green  leaf,  when  four  brought  joy  upon  it. 
As  Ulster  lost  —  from  Munster,  Leinster,  Con- 
nacht. 

But  Ulster  lost  with  each  green  sod  still  crying 
For  those  dear  dead  who  left  us  dreams  undying 
Of  Ireland's  needs,  O'Neill  whose  heart  took  fire 
And  joined  the  sacred  flames  of  Hugh  Maguire. 

Shall  we  not  cry  "  Lamh  Dearg  abu  "  and  glory 
In  Cromwell's  fall,  in  reading  Clonmel's  story, 
Or  by  the  "  Yellow  Ford "  who  cheered  most 

loudly 
As  hand  from  hand  we  passed  the  same  flag 

proudly? 

26 


A  CATHOLIC  TO  HIS  ULSTER  BROTHER 

Yea,  we  have  gone  with  joyous  hearts  to  follow 
Men  of  your  thought  by  mountain,  hill  and  hollow, 
Died  for  them,  lived  again,  loved  down  the  ages 
To  bless  them  yet  upon  historic  pages. 


Emmet  and  Tone !     Ah,  half  our  pride  uprooted, 
We  were  but  dead  if  we  such  names  refuted, 
Our  well-beloved,  dear  brothers  of  our  Sireland, 
We  call  with  them  "  For  God  and  Holy  Ireland." 

And  do  we  mourn  our  Owen  Roe  less  sadly, 

Or  hold   Lord  Edward's  claim  more  loved  or 

gladly, 

Because  of  "  popish  "  ways  of  Owen's  praying, 
Or  Edward  went  to  other  altars  straying? 

Do  we  forget  or  could  our  fond  faith  slacken 
A  patriot's  glow  in  owning  Joy  MacCracken, 

27 


A  CATHOLIC  TO  HIS  ULSTER  BROTHER 

Who  Belfast-born  has  helped  the  island's  story 
And  shed  from  Antrim's  hills  a  sunrise  glory. 

Mitchel  or  Meagher!     Ah,  hear  the  dear  names 

falling 

On  no  deaf  ears,  we  welcome  to  you  calling, 
"  O  dead  long  gone,  O  dead  of  recent  slaying, 
From  your  chill  hands  we  take  the  banner,  pray- 

ing." 

Where  this  dear  land  forbids  us  to  forsake  her, 
Join  with  the  one  sweet  voice  to  the  same  Maker, 
"  Our  hate  is  one,  our  love  is  one  the  other, 
Lead  on!  or  follow,  O  my  Irish  brother." 


28 


s 


THEY  DID  NOT  SEE  THY  FACE 


OME  on  the  pleasant  hillside  have  thought 

they  saw  thee  pass, 
As  flings  a  cloud  before  the  sun  a  shadow  on  the 

grass. 

They  praised  thy  fairness  and  held  dear  thy  meek- 
ness and  thy  grace; 

They  only  saw  thy  shade,  Kathleen,  they  did  not 
see  thy  face. 


Some  on  the  purple  mountains  stood  to  see  thee 

speeding  by, 
As  glides  a  sudden  golden  shaft  across  a  stormy 

sky; 
And  these  were  braggarts  of  their  love  within 

thy  dwelling-place; 
They  saw  thy  beauty,  Rosin  Dubh,  they  did  not 

see  thy  face. 


29 


THEY  DID  NOT  SEE  THY  FACE 

But  some  in  flames  of  battle  strove  their  slender 

weight  to  throw 
Against  the  bayonet  and  the  gun  that  hid  thy  only 

foe; 
They  left  for  thee  their  earthly  loves,  these  heroes 

of  thy  race, 
And  died,  as  all  must  die,   Kathleen,  who  once 

have  seen  thy  face. 

So  must  thy  grief  be  ever  new  who  holds  a  love 
like  this, 

That  -thrusts  away  a  dear  one's  heart,  a  little 
child's  soft  kiss, 

That  leaves  behind  an  honoured  home,  a  Moth- 
er's fond  embrace, 

Till  others  seek  again,  Kathleen,  to  see  thy  hidden 
face. 


THE  WILD  BEAST 

ONE  spring  as  I  went  walking 
By  budding  leaf  and  thorn 
To  see  the  sun  a-shining 

Upon  an  Easter  morn; 
My  hound  she  gambolled  by  me, 

Oft  hunting  in  her  play 
Some  small  thing  in  the  hedges 

She  found  upon  her  way, 
How  splendid  was  her  going 

How  happy  was  her  joy, 
I  felt  I  could  not  chide  her 

Nor  dared  her  play  destroy. 

Yet  oft  I  called  "  Come  hither, 

I  fear  lest  thou  displace 
Some  hidden  beast  or  reptile 

All  savage  for  the  chase." 
I  scarce  had  spoken  to  her 

And  turned  again  for  town 
31 


THE  WILD  BEAST 

When  we  were  in  the  shadows 

And  fog  and  mist  came  down. 
When   from   the   gloom  and  darkness 

Some  lion  voice  did  roar; 
He  sprung  upon  our  pathway 

To  stand  our  road  before. 
I  cried  in  vain  contention, 

"  O,  let  us  go  way," 
But  to  our  further  progress 

The  red  cat  stood  at  bay. 
My  hound  would  not  obey  me 

So  brave  and  fine  was  she 
But  sprang  upon  the  wild  beast 

To  fight  for  liberty. 

Oh,  how  my  heart  was  beating 

So  full  of  grief  and  fear 
At  thunder  of  the  battle 

That  fell  upon  my  ear. 

32 


THE  WILD  BEAST 

Oh,  great  and  splendid  fighting 

Like  to  the  times  of  Fionn, 
Alas !  uneven  chances, 

My  dear  one  could  not  win; 
And  sudden  to  a  silence 

I  opened  eyes  of  pain, 
With  face  towards  her  foe  still 

My  faithful  hound  was  slain. 

But  she  has  left  behind  her 

A  pup  of  splendid  race, 
And  he  shall  bound  before  me 

And  take  the  other's  place. 
So  I  can  go  a-walking 

'Mid  budding  leaf  and  thorn 
To  see  the  sun  a-rising 

Upon  an  Easter  morn. 


33 


THE  WILD  GEESE 

"  Wild  geese  are  very  numerous  in  this  district,  especially 
around  Lough  Esknahinny." —  Cork  Examiner,  December  12, 
1916. 

I  WALKED  by  Esknahinny  at  the  waning  of 
the  moon, 
As  star  by  star  came  peeping  to  some  celestial 

tune. 

The  little  waves  crept  to  me  to  call  and  fall  away, 
O  lone  I  was  and  lonesome  to  meet  the  breaking 
day. 


I  heard  wind  voices  whisper  and  leaned  to  hear 

them  speak; 
I  saw  the  moving  shadows  —  and  feared  to  turn 

and  seek. 
The  slender  reeds  were  shaking  between  me  and 

the  light, 
And  loneliness  fell  from  me  with  the  treasure  of 

the  night. 

34 


THE  WILD  GEESE 

I  heard  dark  wings  flap  by  me  towards  the  rising 

sun, 
Dear  birds  so  swift  in  passing  I  blessed  them 

every  one. 
The  wild  geese  had  come  back  again,  they  passed 

me  in  the  night. 
Between  me  and  the  waning  moon  I  watched  them 

in  their  flight. 

I  had  walked  the  paths  of  Kerry  and  dared  not 

say  the  word; 
I  had  trod  the  roads  of  Leinster  all  broken  by  the 

sword. 
O  Ulster,  Munster,  Connacht,  He  gave  Who  can 

restore, 
The  Wild  Geese,  the  Wild  Geese,  they  have  come 

home  once  more. 


35 


THE  QUEEN 

I  SAW  her  many  years  ago,  my  gladness  and 
my  grief. 
She    stood    amongst    the    barley    fields    to    bind 

the  wayward  sheaf. 
She  walked  upon  the  mountain's  side  to  draw  the 

brown  turf  home, 
She  planted  many  famine  crops  within  the  peaty 

loam. 
From  rugged  rocks  and  silver  shore  she  gathered 

grey  sloakeen. 
She  made  the  green  earth  brown  again,  and  made 

the  brown  earth  green. 
She  wearied  in  those  striving  years  from  morning 

until  night. 
Her  fields  grew  wide,  her  stately  home  shone  in 

the  morning  light. 
But  O,  those  hours  of  yesterday,  mo  storeen  and 

mo  crie, 


THE  QUEEN 

I  saw  her  turn  her  face  away  to  hide  her  grief 
from  me. 

I  flew  to  her  a  while  ago,  my  thousand  joys  —  so 

dear; 
For  ruin  fell  upon  her  house  and  I  was  full  of 

fear. 
I  saw  wild  fury  seize  her  home,  I  heard  a  red 

wind  scream, 
I  saw  the  groaning  roof-tree  fall,  the  flame  on 

wall  and  beam. 
I  fell  upon  the  broken  way,  struck  down  by  chill 

despair: 

"  My  life's  long  love,  my  only  joy,  my  dear  be- 
yond compare, 
A  thousand  souls  will  bleed  with  mine,  a  thousand 

hearts  expire, 
To  see  so  fair  a  form  as  thine  upon  a  martyr's 

fire." 

37 


THE  QUEEN 

From  out  the  glow,  from  out  the  flame,  from  ruin 

fierce  and  wild, 
I  saw  her  come  with  dancing  feet  and  glad  face 

like  a  child, 
Her  red-gold  hair,  her  snow-white  brow,  her  gown 

of  silken  green: 
Out  through  the  ruins  of  her  home,  she  walked  as 

would  a  queen. 
Ni  Houlihan,  Ni  Houlihan,  she  came  a  splendid 

queen. 


THE  CHOICE 

THIS  Consul  Casement  —  he  who  heard  the 
cry 

Of  stricken  people  —  and  who  in  his  fight 
To  lift  the  torture  load  from  broken  men, 
And  shield  sad  women  from  eternal  night, 
Went   through   lone,    hot,    and   fevered   foreign 
lands. 

For  doomed  Casement,  slaves  that  he  raised  up 
Pray  with  strong  voices,  so  a  wide  world  hears. 
Men   saved   from   anguish,   women   saved   from 

shame, 

He  dried  your  children's  tears! 
He  gave  you  life  —  for  him  lift  pleading  hands. 

Sir  Roger  Casement,  honoured  for  his  years 
Of  stress  and  struggle,  of  fatigue  and  work, 
What  is  the  claim  of  his  frail  human  needs 

39 


THE  CHOICE 

For  arduous  hours  he  did  not  shun  nor  shirk, 
A  King's  reward,  a  royal  friendliness! 

For  honoured  Casement  titles  and  renown, 
A  future  great  with  promise,  all  life's  page 
Writ  in  gold  letters,  and  a  path  so  soft 
One  could  not  hear  the  coming  of  old  age 
To  point  an  honoured  tomb  that  nations  bless. 

Ah!  Irish  Casement,  in  the  roar  of  war 

That  stung  his  blood  and  whipped  his  manhood's 

fire. 

What  did  he  hear  upon  red  shaken  earth, 
Where  little  nations  struggle  and  expire? 
Some  banshee  cry  upon  the  hot  wind  thrills ! 

And  Roger  Casement  —  he  who  freed  the  slave, 
Made  sad  babes  smile  and  tortured  women  hope, 

40 


THE  CHOICE 

Flung  all  aside,  King's  honours  and  great  years, 
To  take  for  finis  here  a  hempen  rope, 
And  banshee  cries  upon  far  Irish  hills. 


THE  OLD  SONG 

WHEN  I  was  a  young  lad  of  happy  sixteen 
There  came  to  my  window  the  Cushla-mo 
chree, 
And  the  song  that  she  sang  was  the  song  of  the 

wind, 

And  the  song  that  she  sang  was  the  song  of  the 
sea. 


"  And  will  you  come  with  me,  a  vie  and  a  stor? 
And  will  you  come  with  me,  alanna?  "  she  cried, 
11  O,  my  father  will  rage  and  my  mother  will 

mourn, 
If  I  take  to  the  mountains  to  march  by  your  side." 


"  O,  your  father  must  rage  and  your  mother  must 

sigh, 

But  I  bid  you  follow  and  I  am  your  queen." 

42 


THE  OLD  SONG 

O,  I  stole  from  my  window  I  held  her  so  dear, 
And  I   followed  the  wave  of  her  garments  of 
green. 

My  father  did  rage  and  my  mother  did  sigh, 
"  Your  way  will  be  hard  and  your  heart  it  will 

break, 
Your  feet  will  grow  weary,  your  cheek  will  be 

pale, 
If  you  go  to  the  mountains  for  Grannia  Wael's 

sake." 


My  years  waned  in  prison,  my  rough  bed  was 

hard, 

When  I  was  a  freeman  my  blood  it  was  cold : 
I  met  her,  my  true-love;  I  made  her  my  wife: 
O,  home-weary  was  I  because  I  grew  old  I 


43 


THE  OLD  SONG 

O,  the  years  flew  in  passing  in  peace  and  in  rest, 
And  I  watched  my  young  son  as  he  leaped  and  he 

ran, 

O,  proud  was  my  heart  as  I  dreamed  me  a  dream, 
I  would  wed  him  to  fortune  when  he  grew  a  man. 

But  when  I  was  dreaming  one  eve  in  my  chair 
There  came  to  the  window  the  song  of  the  sea, 
The  song  of  the  mountains,  the  song  of  the  wind, 
And  my  son  rose  and  answered,  "  Who  calls  upon 
me?" 


"  My  son,  if  you  listen  your  mother  will  mourn, 
Your  father  will  rage,  and  your  cheek  will  grow 

pale, 

Your  wife  will  be  grieving,  your  child  weep  alone, 
If  you  follow  the  singing  of  poor  Grannia  Wael." 


44 


THE  OLD  SONG 

As  he  would  not  hear  me  his  mother  did  mourn, 
His  child  wearied  for  him,  his  wife's  cheek  grew 

pale, 

He  was  shot  without  pity  at  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  the  last  words  he  spoke  were,  "  God  bless 
Grannia  Wael." 


My  grandchild  is  troubled,  he  calls  from  his  sleep, 
"  Ah,   Gran' father,   Gran'father,   what  does  she 

say?" 

"  O,  little  one,  little  one,  rest  you  secure, 
The  wind  on  the  window  it  calls  in  its  play. 


"  O,  little  one,  little  one,  hush  you  and  sleep, 
'Tis  the  song  of  the  wind  and  the  cry  of  the  sea." 
"  O,  gran' father,  gran'father,  when  may  I  go? 
'Tis  the  voice  of  poor  Grannia  Wael  calling  to 
me." 

45 


THE  OLD  SONG 

"  O,  your  path  will  be  rough  and  your  prison  bed 

hard, 
Your  heart  will  be  broken,  your  cheek  will  grow 

pale, 

You  will  die  on  the  gallows  when  life  is  yet  young, 
If  you  list  to  the  singing  of  old  Grannia  Wael." 

"  My  path  may  be  rough  and  my  prison  bed  hard, 
But  my  heart  will  be  glad  and  my  soul  shall  not 

quail, 

I  shall  die  on -the  gallows  with  joy  and  with  pride, 
And  -my  last  breath  shall  whisper,   *  God  bless 

Grannia  Wael.'  " 


w 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER 

ITH  a  knock  upon  the  window  comes  the 
young  volunteer, 

'Tis  his  step  upon  the  threshold;  "  what  is  it  brings 
you  here?  " 

"  Oh,  will  you  up  and  follow,  swift  as  the  homing 
swallow, 

By  mountain  hill  and  hollow?  "  said  the  young 
volunteer. 

Said  the  brave  volunteer,  said  the  loved  volunteer, 

"  Oh,  will  you  up  and  follow  with  the  true  volun- 
teer?" 


Oh,  I  will  not  rise  and  follow  with  the  young 

volunteer, 
With  my  pockets  full  of  money  and  my  house  so 

full  of  cheer. 
Why  should  I  go  a  tramping,  with  cold  and  windy 

•camping, 

47 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER 

On  all  my  pleasures  stamping  with  the  young  vol- 
unteer? 

With  this  wild  volunteer,  with  this  strange  volun- 
teer, 

Why  should  I  go  a  tramping  with  this  young  vol- 
unteer? 


With  a  knock  upon  your  window  comes  the  young 

volunteer, 
'Tis  his  step  upon  the  threshold,  what  is  it  brings 

him  here? 
"  Oh,  rise  and  march  together,  in  shine  or  stormy 

weather, 
With  hopes  you  cannot  tether,"  said  the  young 

volunteer. 

• 

Said  the  brave  volunteer,  said  the  loved  volunteer, 
"  Will  you  up  and  march  together?  "  said  the  true 
volunteer. 

48 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER 

Yea,  I  will  rise  and  follow  with  the  young  volun- 
teer, 

And  open  is  my  doorway,  oh,  welcome  is  he  here. 

Yea,  I  will  go  a  drilling,  how  gladly  and  how 
willing, 

With  all  my  pulses  thrilling,  for  the  young  vol- 
unteer, 

With  the  brave  volunteer,  with  the  loved  volun- 
teer, 

Oh,  gladly  go  a  drilling  with  the  true  volunteer. 

Oh,  fool,  to  rise  and  follow  with  the  young  vol- 
unteer, 

Content  we  were  and  happy  till  he  came  calling 
here. 

Thus  all  our  prospects  'blighting,  what  is  the  use 
of  fighting? 

We  go  with  foe  uniting,  not  with  this  volunteer, 


49 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER 

Oh,  this  false  volunteer,  oh,  this  mad  volunteer, 
All  our  placid  progress  blighting  comes  this  wild 
volunteer. 

Oh,  since  you  will  not  follow  with  this  young 
volunteer, 

To  fight  for  home  and  freedom,  what  are  you 
doing  here? 

Why  were  you  still  delaying,  thus  your  mother- 
land betraying, 

While  he  rose  her  voice  obeying  did  the  young 
volunteer, 

Did  the  true  volunteer,  did  the  loved  volunteer, 

While  you  were  still  delaying  died  the  brave 
volunteer. 

'Tis  a  ghost  and  but  the  shadow  of  a  young  vol- 
unteer, 

He  is  dead  and  stilly  sleeping,  what  should  be 
haunting  here? 

50 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER 

'Tis  but  the  storm  winds  flutter  old  dreams  you 
dare  not  utter 

And  false  the  hopes  they  mutter,  and  pale  the 
volunteer, 

'Tis  a  dream  volunteer,  yea,  a  dead  volunteer, 

Old  leaves  that  fly  and  flutter  round  a  dead  vol- 
unteer. 

Oh,  be  he  ghost  or  shadow  of  a  lost  volunteer, 
Though  sad  this  heart  and  grieving,  still  welcome 

is  he  here, 

The  greater  his  recruiting,  who  fell  from  cow- 
ardly shooting, 

I  stand  to  him  s-aluti-ng,  oh,  my  brave  volunteer. 
Oh,  the  dear  volunteer,  oh,  this  true  volunteer, 
All  the  greater  the  recruiting  of  this  dead  volun- 
teer. 


THE  TREE  UPROOTED 

[IN  MEMORY] 

THE  earth-bound  giant  now  is  free,  is  free; 
The  last  fight  over,  and  the  last  moan  still; 
No  tale  of  snow-clad  heights  where  great  dreams 

be, 
His  exile  heart  can  thrill. 

Ah !  how  he  cried  with  groaning  branch  and  bough, 
For  that  far  land  beyond  the  sunshine  morn, 
For  that  lost  joy  tilled  earth  will  not  allow, 
That  land  where  he  was  born. 

Ah!  how  his  heart  that  fought  for  freedom  pined; 
His  leaves,  like  restless  fingers,  tried  to  hold 
The  trailing  garments  of  the  passing  wind, 
His  struggle  manifold. 

The  four  winds  heard  and  strove  with  mighty 

hands 

To  bear  him  back  to  that  far  northern  height 

52 


THE  TREE  UPROOTED 

Where   he   was  born;   loosed   from  his   earthly 

bonds, 
He  poised,  a  moment's  flight. 

Then  to  the  wind  in  passionate  embrace 

His    branches    moved  —  out    sung    his    parting 

breath. 

He  leaned  to  freedom  from  his  prison  place, 
Whose  freedom  was  but  death. 

Better  so  lie,  from  this  dire  bondage  free, 
O !  heart,  who  knew  the  silence  of  the  snows, 
Than  stand  alone,  O  solitary  tree ! 
Where  English  greenwood  grows. 

Better  to  die  than  live  in  dull  disgrace, 
O!  soul  that -dreamed  the  glory  of  the  dream; 
To  be  for  sparrows  but  a  resting  place, 
Who  heard  the  eagle  scream. 

53 


THE  WREATH 

[EASTER,  1917] 

HERE  on  my  path  by  some  hard  fate  struck 
down, 

When  life  at  last  held  out  full  hands  to  me. 
When  the  great  dreams  of  younger  years  awoke 
And  dear,  dead  voices  whispered  "  Liberty." 
Ah,  cruel  blow,  from  which  I  stricken  rise 
And  blindly  stagger  for  that  path  again, 
To  wonder  if  'tis  worth  the  striving  now, 
Thus  robbed  upon  life's  highway  and  half  slain. 

Here  I  awoke  to  fear  again  the  dead, 
Whose  tender  faces  held  me  as  I  slept. 
Ah,  well  I  knew  who  leaned  above  me  there, 
Into  whose  arms  so  pitifully  I  crept. 
And  I  awoke,  for  Spring  did  cry,  "  Arise, 
For  birds  within  the  green  woods  carol  clear." 
Then  Easter  came  with  wreath  of  lilies  pale, 
Placed  on  my  heart  the  grief  of  yester-year. 

54 


THE  PRISONER 

ALL  day  I  lie  beneath  the  great  pine  tree, 
Whose     perfumed     branches     wave     and 

shadow  me. 

I  hear  the  groaning  of  its  straining  heart 
As  in  the  breeze  its  thin  leaves  meet  and  part 
Like  frantic  fingers  loosened  and  entwined; 
I  hear  it  whisper  to  the  sighing  wind, 
''  What   of  the   mountain   peaks,   where    I   was 

born?" 
As  sharp  tears  drop  I  feel  its  falling  thorn. 


I  see  in  the  far  clouds  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Homeward  once  more,  free,  in  the  storm-swept 

sky. 

Back  to  the  land  they  loved,  all,  all,  have  gone, 
How  swift  the  flight  by  joy  and  hope  led  on. 
'  What  of  the  mountain  land  where  I  was  born?  " 
I  cry,  they  pass,  glad  in  the  dawning  morn, 

55 


THE  PRISONER 

Home    to    the    moon-pale    lake,    the    heath-clad 

hill, 
And  give  no  thought  for  one  imprisoned  still. 

All  day  I  lie  beneath  the  sad  pine  tree, 
Whose  groaning  branches  wave  and  shadow  me, 
Chained  to  the  earth,  the  dark  clay  of  the  grave, 
In  helpless  fashion  feel  its  wild  heart  rave. 
u  Free,  set  free,"  I  hear  its  moaning  breath, 
Where  liberty  means  naught,  alas,  but  death. 
Ah,  freedom  is  but  death. 


OURSELVES  ALONE 

ONE  morning,  when  dreaming  in  deep  medi- 
tation, 

I  met  a  sweet  colleen  a-making  her  moan. 
With  sighing  and  sobbing  she  cried  and  lamented; 
"  Oh  where  is  my  lost  one,  and  where  has  he 
flown? 

"  My  house  it  is  small,  and  my  field  is  but  little, 
Yet  round  flew  my  wheel  as  I  sat  in  the  sun, 
He  crossed  the  deep  sea  and  went  forth  for  my 

battle : 
Oh,  has  he  proved  faithless  —  the  fight  is  not 

won?" 

And  then  I  said:  "  Kathleen,  ah!  do  you  remem- 
ber 

When  you  were  a  queen,  and  your  castles  were 
strong, 

You  cried  for  the  love  of  a  cold-hearted  stranger, 

And  in  your  fair  island  you  planted  the  wrong? 

57 


OURSELVES  ALONE 

"  And  oh,"  I  cried,  "  Kathleen,  I  once  heard  you 

weeping 

And  sighing  and  sobbing  and  making  your  moan. 
You  sang  of  a  lost  one,  a  dear  one,  a  false  one  — 
'  Oh,  gone  is  my  blackbird,  and  where  has  he 

flown?' 

"Ah!  many  came   forth  to  the  sound  of  your 

crying, 
And  fought  down  the  years  for  the  freedom  you 

pined. 

How  many  lie  still,  in  their  cold  exile  sleeping, 
Who  sought  in  far  lands  your  lost  blackbird  to 

find? 

"  And  many  are  caught  in  the  net  of  the  stranger, 
And  all  but  forgotten  the  sound  of  your  name, 
For  other  loves  call  them  to  help  and  to  save 

them: 

They  fell  to  dishonour  —  we  hold  them  in  shame. 

58. 


OURSELVES  ALONE 

"  Oh,  why  drive  me  forth  from  your  hearth  into 

exile 

And  into  far  dangers?     Your  house  is  my  own. 
Faithful  I  serve,  as  I  ever  did  serve  you, 
Standing  together,  ourselves  —  and  alone." 


59 


KATHLEEN'S  LOVER 

I  WOULD  I  had  a  thousand  tongues 
To  sing  thy  praise,  to  sing  thy  praise, 
I'd  teach  the  birds  on  ev'ry  tree 
To  chorus  the  sweet  melody, 
For  all  my  days,  for  all  my  days. 
I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  tongues 
To  curse  thy  foe,  to  curse  thy  foe, 
I'd  pray  each  stormy  wind  and  wave 
His  house  to  break,  his  ship  to  stave, 
To  lay  him  low,  to  lay  him  low. 

I  wish  I  had  a  thousands  hearts 
To  love  thee  more,  to  love  thee  more, 
Lest  one  should  break  before  thy  tears 
Let  others  come  to  hush  thy  fears 
And  thee  adore,  and  thee  adore. 
I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  hearts 
To  hate  thy  foe,  to  hate  thy  foe. 
Lest  one  should  dare  in  pity  turn 
60 


KATHLEEN'S  LOVER 

Let  others  still  with  vengance  burn 
To  lay  him  low,  to  lay  him  low. 

I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  hands 

To  work  for  thee,  to  work  for  thee, 

To  bring  thee  fairest  fruit  and  flower, 

To  pluck  for  thee  God's  golden  hour, 

To  set  thee  free,  to  set  thee  free. 

I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  hands 

To  strike  thy  foe,  to  strike  thy  foe, 

I'd  track  him  without  rest  or  sleep, 

My  arm  were  strong,  my  thrust  were  deep 

To  lay  him  low,  to  lay  him  low. 

I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  lives 
For  thee  to  live,  for  thee  to  live. 
In  foreign  lands  in  ev'ry  state 
My  days,  my  years,  to  make  thee  great 
I'd  freely  give,  so  freely  give. 
61 


KATHLEEN'S  LOVER 

I  wish  I  had  a  thousand  lives 
To  thee  to  fly,  to  thee  to  fly; 
To  praise,  to  strive,  to  fight,  to  fall, 
And  on  thy  name  and  God  to  call, 
For  thee  to  live,  for  thee  to  live. 


62 


THE  FOE 

MY  foe  did  strike  me,  Lord,  I  am  not  meek, 
I  cannot  turn  to  him  the  other  cheek, 
Rather  to  Thee  for  vengeance  do  I  cry, 
Tooth  for  a  tooth,  dear  Lord,  eye  for  an  eye. 

Had  he  but  felled  me,  giving  blow  for  blow, 
My  rage  had  little  flame,  my  hate  were  slow, 
I  could  forgive  stood  he  to  me  alone, 
But  through  those  dearer  souls  he  reached  my 
own. 

Oh,  brave  heads  slain,  grey  locked  and  darkly 

brown, 

I  saw  you  bleed  beneath  the  martyr's  crown, 
Dear  eyes  that  closed  on  unfulfilled  desire, 
I  saw  you  robbed  of  your  celestial  fire. 

Pale  lips  that  cried  one  prayer  in  parting  breath, 
I  knew  you  dumb  in  silence  and  in  death. 

63 


THE  FOE 

My  foe  hath  struck  me,  Lord,  I  am  not  meek, 
I  cannot  turn  to  him  the  other  cheek. 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

SOMEHOW   I   never   liked  you,   John,   your 
ways  were  crude : 

Your  smile  was  pharisaical,  your  manners  rude; 
Although  you  prospered  well  in  wordly  things, 
Ay,  were  on  nodding  terms  with  Czars  and  Kings, 
I  seem  to  see  the  counter  and  the  store, 
And  all  the  shopman's  manners  learnt  before 
You  donned  the  regal  robes  of  finer  folk, 
And  in  your  brain  the  strong  desire  awoke 
To  play  the  master  where  you  were  the  man, — 
Plain  Hodge,  make  blue  the  plebeian  blood  that 

ran 

To  warm  the  grocer  of  those  early  days, 
Who  sanded  sugar  and  who  mixed  his  tea 
Before  he  bowed  in  Sunday  sanctity, 
With  that  lank  Scotsman  who  your  partner  was. 
Ah,  no,  I  never  liked  you,  John,  because 
You  were  a  braggart  and  a  pharisee, 
Held  many  slaves,  yet  prated  "  Liberty." 

65 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

Your  sweated  people  toiled  to  make  you  great, 
Swept   out   your    store    and   laboured   long   and 

late. 

Their  pay  was  poor,  their  faces  lined  with  care, 
Of  all  good  things  you  took  the  lion's  share. 
In  foreign  lands,  half  naked,  they  slaved  on 
To  gather  gold  to  heap  your  plate  upon; 
You'd  swagger  past,  proud  of  their  dull  amaze, 
In  Royal  purple,  eager  for  all  praise. 

Oh,  long  ago,  when  you  were  yet  a  boy, 
You  always  took  the  other  children's  toy; 
And  you  were  best  at  playing  games  of  bluff, 
And  no  one   liked  you,   John;   your  ways  were 

rough. 

I  well  remember  Kate,  who  lived  next  door, 
Her  pretty  eyes  and  snowy  pinafore, 
Which  oft  you  would  mud-spatter  and  then  call: 
"  Oh,  see  the  dirty  girl,"  to  one  and  all. 

66 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

A  jealous  and  a  greedy  boy  you  were, 
And  loved  to  make  a  spectacle  of  her, 
Because  she  never  liked  you,  John,  since  you 
To   her  sweet   garden   forced  your   rough  way 

through. 

She  heard  you  beg:  "Oh,  Father,  let  me  go; 
/'//  teach  her  how  to   make   the   white  flowers 

grow." 

And  always  since  I  hear  the  same  old  cry: 
'  There's  none  so  good,  so  fine,  so  brave  as  I." 
Ay,  even  when  I  roam  to  some  far  spot 
'Neath  Eastern  skies,  by  world  and  time  forgot, 
I  see  the  dusky  people  creeping  by, 
Alarmed  to  hear  your  shout  of  "  I,  I,  I." 
"  I'll  show  them  how,  I'll  tell  them  what,  and 

why; 

I'll  bid  them  how  to  live,  and  how  to  die." 
And  when  I,  yawning,  seek  some  further  shore, 
Some  Indian  strand,  I  hear  your  voice  once  more : 

6? 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

"  I'll  teach  them  how  to  work,  and  how  to  pray." 
Oh,  John,  you  never  think  before  your  day 
Rome    was,    Greece    was  —  can    one    believe    it 

true? — 
Great  Egypt  died,  and  never  heard  of  you! 

How  all  the  small  folk  hated  you,  big  John ! 
As  you  grew  fat  their  little  pastures  on; 
And  yet  they  quailed  before  you,  or  your  state, 
And  walked  behind  you  —  all  save  little  Kate ! 
She  could  not  tame  you  with  her  gentle  ways 
Yet  her  right  anger  filled  you  with  amaze. 
When  she  would  face  you,  giving  jeer  for  jeer, 
You  struck  her  down,  and  laughed  to  see  her  tear. 
With  her  great  heart  for  pity  not  too  strong, 
Yet  not  too  weak  for  anger  at  the  wrong 
You  loved  to  plague  her  with,  as  when  a  child 
You  gave  her  grief  if  e'er  you  thought  she  smiled. 
You  snatched  her  flag,  her  gun,  her  little  ships  — 

68 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

The  very  bread  that  touched  her  parted  lips! 
Her  pretty  chainey  and  her  shining  glass, 
And  all  that  took  your  greedy  eyes,  alas! 
Then  with  rough  promise  sought  to  still  her  cry, 
And  named  her  "  Vixen  "  to  the  passer-by. 
Ah,  with  what  care  a  seething  pot  you'd  brew 
A  bitter  draught  none  mixed  so  well  as  you; 
You'd  force  her  take,  so,  weakened,  you  might 

cry: 
"  She's  ne'er  contented,  yet  how  good  am  I." 

The  little  Church  wherein  she  loved  to  tell 

Her  pretty  beads,  I  do  remember  well, 

How  you  would  push  her  out,  and  there  would 

stay, 

With  eyes  uplifted,  as  you  seemed  to  pray  — 
Ah!  when,  indeed,  I  most  mistrusted  you 
Was  when  you  prayed,  whose  Trinity  I  knew 
The  scrubbing  brush,  the  belly,  and  the  purse, 

69 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

All  badly  served.     Your  cleanliness  a  curse 

Of  little  minds,  that  have  no  thoughts  to  fill 

The  chambers  of  their  brain,  and  have  no  will 

But  service  to  the  petty  things  of  life, 

Destroy  sweet  Calm  with  their  incessant  strife, 

Cleaning,  yet  never  clean,  they  ever  seek 

To  whiten  sepulchres.     Your  table  rude 

With  all  its  ill-prepared  and  heavy  food 

To  feed  your  dull  yet  eager  appetite. 

Your  purse  well  filled  can  shrink  or  can  expand 

To  thirty  silver  pieces  to  your  hand. 

Yet,  John,  I  must  admit  in  many  ways 
You  have  your  virtues  not  devoid  of  praise. 
Could  I  forget  sweet  Kate  who  lived  next  door, 
With  sweetest  eyes  and  snowy  pinafore. 
She  was  of  finer  clay  —  a  child  of  dreams 
Who  knew  the  secret  songs  of  hills  and  streams. 
Made  from  the  passions  of  the  four  great  seas, 

70 


EMPIRE  BUILDING 

Lithe  as  the  swaying  of  the  storm-swept  trees, 
Sweet  as  the  heather-bell  on  moorland  height, 
Blue  were  her  eyes,  her  hair  a  clouding  night. 
What  knew  you,  Hodge,  of  such  a  one  as  this, 
Whose  lips  were  lewd  and  had  a  ploughman's 

kiss? 

She'll  never  love  you,  John,  howe'er  you  smile  — 
A  sour  grimace  that  hides  the  deeper  guile. 
Too  often  you  her  tender  heart  betrayed 
For  her  at  last  to  listen  unafraid 
Of  some  new  plan  to  strike  her  down  again, 
To  break  her  heart  in  plotting  for  your  gain. 
Yes,  as  I  love  her,  John,  I  you  despise 
And  loathe  you  for  the  sorrow  in  her  eyes. 
Ah,  no,  we'll  never  like  you,  Hodge,  your  ways 

are  crude, 
Your  smile  is  pharisaical,  your  manners  rude. 


LOUD  SHOUT  THE  FLAMING 
TONGUES  OF  WAR 

TA'N  SIGN  AC  AR  SRAIDIB  AG  FAIRE  GO  CAOCRAC 
Air — "The  West's  asleep." 

LOUD  shout  the  flaming  tongues  of  war. 
The  cannon's  thunder  rolls  afar 
While  Empires  tremble  for  their  fall. 
Thou  art  alone  amongst  them  all. 
Where  is  the  friend  who  for  thy  sake 
Will  on  his  sword  thy  freedom  take? 
The  son  who  holds  thy  right  alone 
Above  an  Empire  or  a  throne? 

Ah,  Grannia  Wael,  thy  stricken  head 
Is  bowed  in  sorrow  o'er  thy  dead, 
Thy  dead  who  for  love  of  thee 
Not  for  some  foreign  liberty. 
Shall  we  betray  when  hope  is  near, 
Our  Motherland  whom  we  hold  dear, 
72 


FLAMING  TONGUES  OF  WAR 

To  go  to  fight  on  foreign  strand, 
For  foreign  rights  and  foreign  land? 

The  Lion's  fangs  have  sought  to  kill 

A  Nation's  soul,  a  Nation's  will; 

From  tooth  and  claw  thy  wounded  breast 

Has  held  them  safe,  has  held  them  blest. 

About  thy  head  great  eagles  are, 

They  fly  with  scream  and  storm  of  war, 

Their  shadows  fall,  we  do  not  know 

If  they  be  friend, —  if  they  be  foe. 

For  Lion's  roar  we  have  no  fears, 

We  fought  him  down  the  restless  years. 

We  watch  the  Eagles  in  the  sky, 

Lest  they  should  land  —  or  pass  us  by. 

But,  yet  beware !  the  Lion  goes 
To  strike  our  friends  —  to  charm  our  foes. 
By  hamlet  small,  by  hill  and  dale 
The  creeping  foe  is  on  our  trail; 

73 


FLAMING  TONGUES  OF  WAR 

His  face  is  kind,  his  voice  is  bland, 
He  prates  of  faith  and  fatherland; 
Shall  we  go  forth  to  do  and  die 
For  Belgium's  tear,  and  Serbia's  sigh? 
Oh,  Volunteers,  through  field  and  tpwn 
He  seeks  his  prey,  he  tracks  thee  down; 
His  voice  is  soft,  his  words  are  fair, 
It  is  the  creeping  foe,  Beware ! 

Ah,  Grannia  Wael,  in  blood  and  tears 

We  fought  thy  battles  through  the  years, 

That  thou  shouldst  live  we're  glad  to  die 

In  prison  cell  or  gallows  high. 

Oh,  cursed  be  he !  who  to  our  shame 

Drives  forth  thy  manhood  in  thy  name, 

O,    WHILE    THE    LION    LAPS    OUR 

BLOOD 
SHALL  WE  UNITE  IN  SERVITUDE. 


74 


THE  HILL-SIDE  MEN 

OWERE  my  heart  a  little  dog 
I'd  call  it  to  my  side 
To  hold  it  with  a  silken  lead 
And  would  not  be  denied. 

For  O  it  wandered  far  from  me 

By  mountain,  vale  and  glen, 

How  glad  it  marched  the  weary  miles 

Amongst  the  hill-side  men ! 

Ah,  were  my  heart  a  singing  bird 
I  would  not  let  it  free, 
It  dare  not  dream  of  sunrise  skies, 
Or  chant  of  liberty. 

For,  ah!  it  sprang  cloud  high  to  sing 
From  mountain,  vale,  and  fen, 
When  first  it  heard  the  secret  drums, 
The  hearts  of  hill-side  men. 

75 


THE  HILL-SIDE  MEN 

My  hopes  are  lost,  my  dreams  are  fled; 
How  lone  are  vale  and  fen ! 
My  heart  lies  cold  within  the  grave 
That  holds  the  hill-side  men. 


i 


THE  STAR 

[IN  MEMORIAM  P.  P.] 

SAW  a  dreamer,  I  saw  a  poet, 


On  the  red  battle-field  fell  my  slow  tear, 
"  Lover  of  birds  and  flowers,  singer  of  gentle 

songs, 

Dying  with  men  of  war,  what  do  you  here?  " 
Languid  his  closing  eyes  looked  to  the  breaking 

dawn 
Where  the  young  day  peeped  out  through  prison 

bars, 

"  I  on  a  high  hill  stood  singing  a  dear  old  song, 
I  fell  to  earth,"  he  sighed,  "  grasping  at  stars." 

He  laid  him  softly  down,   cold  was  his  paling 

cheek, 

Silent  and  chill  he  grew  as  the  dead  are, 
But  from  his  folded  hands  on  to  the  crimson  earth 
Glowing  and  shimmering  fell  a  great  star. 
Out  of  the  heavens  there  came  a  hand  raising  it, 

77 


THE  STAR 

Set  it  in  the  green  sky  for  all  to  see, 

There  it  shone  purely  bright,  faithful  as  planets 

shine, 
There  it  sung  loud  and  sweet  "  Come,  follow  me." 


"  TELLING  THE  BEES  " 

THIS  is  the  son  of  the  white  morning  singing, 
Combing  her  silken  hair's  simmer  of  gold, 
All  of  her  slenderness  wrapped  in  a  gossamer 
Green  of  the  dawning  sky,  dear  to  behold. 

"  When  the  lime  is  in  blossom  the  bees  are  busy, 
Summer  has  come  with  her  honey-sweet  mouth; 

The  lime  is  in  bloom  and  the  hive  it  is  silent, 
Come  little  bees  from  the  North  and  the  South ! 

"  Gather  your  store  when  the  red  sun  is  shining, 
Gather  the  harvest  so  that  you  may  feast, 

The  hive  is  nigh  empty,  the  Queen  she  is  weeping, 
Come  little  bees  from  the  West  and  the  East." 

I  saw  one  go  in  the  pale  of -the  dawning, 
In  a  fair  May-time  a-telling  the  bees, 

Tapping  the  hive  there  she  told  of  men  dying, 
Many  a  dear  name  she  called  to  the  breeze. 

79 


"  TELLING  THE  BEES  " 

They  are  coming,  the  bees,  for  the  time  is  in 

blossom; 
They  are  coming,   the  bees,   from  the  West, 

South,  and  East; 
They   hum   "  donas   Sasan,"    they   hum    "  Sonas 

Eireann, 
We  gather  the  honey,  prepare  for  the  feast." 


80 


THE  STORY  WITHOUT  END 

BEFORE  my  time  my  kindred  were 
As  felons  in  their  land, 
Because  they  claimed  the  liberty 
That  freemen  understand. 

Ere  I  was  born  in  Dublin  town 
Men's  hearts  were  still  aflame; 

They  spoke  of  Allen  and  O'Brien, 
And  whispered  Larkin's  name. 

i 
When  I  slept  on  my  mother's  breast, 

A  little  babe,  and  frail, 
Young  Duffy's  hearse  went  slowly  by: 
He  died  in  Milbank  Jail. 

When  I  could  read,  I  spelt  and  knew 

The  lives  of  patriot  men; 
When  I  could  write,  my  pencil  traced  — 

"  A  Nation  Once  Again." 


THE  STORY  WITHOUT  END 

I  learnt  of  those  who  often  knew 

The  baton  and  the  cell, 
Who  asked  for  right  by  peaceful  means  - 

O'Connell  to  Parnell. 

And  once  when  thro'  the  cheering  streets 
Some  "  felon  "  homeward  came 

I  lit,  amongst  the  gayer  lights, 
My  candle's  tiny  flame. 

When  I  was  but  a  little  child 

I  ran  by  Kickham's  side; 
I  heard  his  bitter  story  told 

In  reverence  and  pride. 

And  when  with  years  he  passed  away, 
When  life  was  young  and  fair, 

I  stood  upon  time's  crowded  path, 
And  met  O'Leary  there. 
82 


THE  STORY  WITHOUT  END 

I  saw  with  pity  and  amaze 

A  craven  party  go, 
Obedient  to  a  Scotsman's  word, 

For  Parnell's  overthrow. 

Before  Kilmainham's  bloodstained  walls 

I  stood  all  cold  and  still; 
I  lived  through  all  the  awful  night 

That  shadowed  Pentonville. 

If  thus  o'er  one  life's  blotted  page 
Some  neutral  soul  should  bend, 

He'll  read  to-day  —  as  yesterday  — 
The  story  without  end. 


THE  DEAD  SOLDIER 

Where  the  sword  has  opened  the  way  the  man  will  follow 

OOK!  they  came,  the  triumphant  army! 


Over  yon  hill  see  their  weapons  peeping  1  " 
Still  I  spoke  not  but  my  wheel  sent  turning, 
I  closed  my  eyes  for  my  heart  was  weeping, 
My  heart  was  weeping  for  a  dead  soldier. 

Who  is  he  who  looks  towards  me? 

"  'Tis  no  man  but  a  gay  flag  flying." 

Red  was  his  mouth  and  his  white  brow  thoughtful, 

Blue  his  eyes  —  how  my  soul  is  crying, 

My  soul  is  crying  for  a  dead  soldier. 

"  Kneel  ye  down,  lest  your  eyes  should  dare  them, 
Kneel  ye  down  and  your  beads  be  saying." 
"  Lord,  on  their  heads  Thy  wrath  deliver," 
This  is  the  prayer  that  my  lips  are  praying, 
My  heart  is  praying  for  a  dead  soldier. 


84 


THE  DEAD  SOLDIER 

"  Best  cheer  the  path  of  the  men  victorious, 
For  he  is  dead  and  his  blade  lies  broken, 
His  march  is  far  where  no  aid  can  follow, 
And  for  his  people  he  left  no  token, 
He  left  no  token,  the  dead  soldier." 

The  way  of  the  sword  a  man  can  follow, 
See  the  young  child  with  his  gold  hair  gleaming. 
When  falls  the  oak  must  the  acorn  perish? 
He  lifts  the  blade  and  his  eyes  are  dreaming, 
He  dreams  the  dream  of  the  dead  soldier. 


THE   END 


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